Six Little Words
by J9
Summary: Standing the casino, Warrick realises something (Table Stakes post ep, W/S)


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Title: Six Little Words

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Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

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Rating: PG

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Pairing: Sara/Warrick

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Spoilers: Post-ep to _Table Stakes_; minor for up to that.

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Feedback: Makes my day

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Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

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Archive: At my site Checkmate () , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

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Summary: Standing in the casino, Warrick comes to a realisation.

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Author's Notes: This has been in the works for a while and was supposed to be posted last night. But then I looked at Farscape. So, yeah. Any mistakes can also be blamed on that. 

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Warrick stood in the casino and took a good look around him, a thousand ghostly voices whispering in his ear. 

Sara's voice, suspicious, almost taunting, echoing off the chipped formica counter of a coffee place downtown, the very first day that they met. "Vegas…NFL football…guy like you… c'mon, you trying to tell me that you didn't make a little pit stop?" The taste of coffee, bitter on his tongue, but not as bitter as the guilt, the recrimination that surged up like bile when she told him that Holly Gribbs was dead. 

Grissom's voice, as calm as it ever was, so that only someone who knew him well would be able to hear the frustration, the annoyance hidden there. "Look, what you do on your time is nobody's business. What you do on my time is my business." He couldn't blame Grissom for how he'd been feeling when he said those words to him. Grissom had gone out on a limb for him after Holly died, keeping him on when protocol, Ecklie and every law of common sense in the known universe said that he had to be fired. He'd promised Grissom that he was done with gambling, and there in his hand, Grissom was holding a tape of him entering a casino when he was supposed to be testifying in court. Warrick knew Grissom was right to be asking the question, it was his job after all, but he was surprised at how much it hurt. 

Ecklie's voice, words as reported by Grissom, the sneer easily imagined. "Warrick Brown had one of my guys sub for him in court but I have it on good authority that he was gambling." He couldn't fault Grissom for acting on the information; after all, it wasn't like he hadn't given him plenty of reason to not trust him. He couldn't fault Sara for investigating him; after all, she was only doing what she was told. He just wished that she'd talked to him about it, asked him about it. He would have been straight with her, he would have told her the truth. But she didn't ask him, went behind his back, as if she couldn't trust him. He'd been surprised to learn just how much that hurt too. 

Sara's voice again, words that she'd told him that she'd said to Grissom, words that Grissom had told him she'd said. Words that she'd said to Warrick on more than one occasion. "Warrick has a problem. Ignoring it won't make it go away."

He'd denied it. Each and every time she'd said it, he'd denied it. Sometimes, she would shout at him, rail at him, throw her hands up to heaven and tell him the same things she'd told him already. He'd shout back, or he'd walk away, but either way the atmosphere would be strained the next time that they spoke. 

Sometimes though, she wouldn't shout. Sometimes, she'd just shake her head and say nothing. Sometimes she was the one who would walk away. 

He'd been surprised to learn how much that hurt too. 

Then his own voice, words that he'd said to Grissom. 

"I won't let you down again."

He'd told him that after Holly had been killed. Grissom should have fired him, had been well within his rights to do so, had even made the decision. Warrick had sat on that bench, waiting for the axe to fall, and no-one had been more surprised than him when Grissom had changed his mind. "I lost one good person today," he'd said. "I'm not losing another." Warrick had sworn right then and there that he wouldn't let this man down again, that his gambling days were done. He'd come too close to losing everything. No way was he doing that again.

He thought he'd achieved some measure of salvation when Grissom and Brass helped him send Judge Cohen to jail. "No-one owns me," he'd told the judge and he'd meant it. 

He really had meant it. 

Then he'd walked into that casino today and he'd known that he was wrong. 

He'd been spinning his wheels on the Tyson Green case, knowing that he was getting nowhere, that he never would. A murder in the glass elevator, a 22 calibre bullet, all the hallmarks of a mob hit, Chicago bankroll in his pocket with a bundle of receipts and credit markers left all over town. It was a familiar story, familiar to anyone who'd lived in Las Vegas for any length of time, even more so to anyone who knew the casinos, knew how that world worked. 

Warrick had been born in Las Vegas, and it's fair to say that he'd grown up in the casinos of the town. 

He knew the story all too well. 

Knew what Tyson Green's life had been like, knew how easy it was to get to that place, knew how hard it was to get out. 

Knew that Tyson Green had been thirty-five years of age. Only five years older than he was. 

Five more years, one less murder, that could've been him. There but for the grace of God and all that. 

He'd tried to push away the thought, but the more he had, the more it had come back to him, and soon it was all he could think about. The brittle weight of the credit markers, their distinct texture, the familiar typeset transported him back to another place and time, and he could almost smell the cigarette smoke, feel the adrenaline of the casino coursing through his veins. The ink had seemed to blur as he'd stared down at them, Tyson Green's signature changing to Warrick Brown's, and the sudden urge to place a bet took him unawares. He'd never been so glad to see Detective Conroy, her presence an excuse to get away from those papers, give them to someone else to log in, out of sight, out of mind. 

Hadn't worked that way though. 

He'd thought he'd be ok going to the casino, explaining to the owner that Tyson Green wouldn't be paying up. He hadn't expected to stand in that balcony, see a woman hit the jackpot, her excited screams, those of the people around her, piercing his skull like nails on chalkboard. The shivers that ran up and down his spine, the gooseflesh that rose on his arms had nothing to do with the noise though, and everything to do with remembrance. How good a win like that felt. 

Walking through the casino now, he had the strangest sensation that the walls were closing in on him, that the room was spinning around him. People smiling, laughing, joking, having a good time. Gambling. 

He supposed that once upon a time, he'd been one of those people. A long time ago though. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd enjoyed himself in one of these places. Not even when he was winning. 

He knew there were a thousand and one good reasons why he shouldn't place a bet. He knew that, but the hunger was still there, almost overpowering. He could practically feel the slot lever in his hand, hear the cogs whirring as the machine spun. Feel the cards in his hand, hear the chink of the chips as he slid them across the green baize surface. Taste the adrenaline, bitter like coffee on his tongue. 

No-one owned him, that's what he'd told Judge Cohen. He'd been wrong, he knew that now. Casinos owned him. Gambling owned him. 

Not even his worst loss had ever felt as bad as that realisation. 

The urge to gamble was powerful, surpassed only by another urge, and it was this one that won. The urge to escape. Blindly, he pushed his way out of the casino, the other patrons not giving him a second glance, too fixated on their own pleasure. He got into his car, gunning the ignition and pulling away, driving as fast as he could, not knowing consciously where he was going, not until he pulled up outside an apartment building. Not his apartment building, but one that he knew well. 

He sat there for a long time, mind in turmoil. Should he go in? Go home? Go back to the lab and get his paperwork in order? Go back to the casino and give in to the urge that was crawling under his skin? 

When in doubt Grissom often told them, always go with your first instinct. So that's what he did. 

It took her a long time to come to the door, and for a while, he thought that perhaps she wasn't home, regardless of the fact that her car was in the driveway. Then he saw the light come on through the smoked glass of the door, heard thumping footsteps and muffled curses, then the door was wrenched open with force, and she ground out the word, "What?"

He looked her over from top to toe, taking in the wild hair, the narrowed eyes, hand on her hip, the fact that she hadn't even registered who was at the door when she bit his head off. She was wearing blue pinstriped flannel pyjamas, and he swallowed hard when the thought came to him that she'd been sleeping. "I'm sorry," he said, stepping back, holding up his hands. "I didn't realise that you'd-"

"Warrick." Her voice stopped him. There was none of the suspicion of the ghostly voice that he'd heard earlier; instead it was a gentle query, laced with worry. He took a deep breath and met her gaze, and she took a step towards him, shivering as her bare feet made contact with the welcome mat. A weak smile accompanied her words when she spoke. "You look worse than I feel."

His shoulders rose and fell soundlessly, as much an admission that she was right as a denial. 

"Come in," she said, motioning with one hand, not taking her eyes off him. 

"I don't want to interrupt you-" he began, but she shook her head, padding away from him. 

"Don't worry about it," she called back to him. "I'll make some coffee."

He followed her in, closing the front door firmly behind him, treading the path she'd led, ending up leaning back against her kitchen counter, cool marble worktop underneath his hands. 

"How's your case?" she asked, because he hadn't been talking to her in a while, days, unusual for them. He'd been chasing his tail on the Green case, while she'd been working with the rest of the shift on the Portia Richmond case, the details of which Nick had sketched for him before he'd left for the casino. At any other time, he would have been talking to Sara about it, wanting her version of events, but not tonight. "Mandy said it wasn't going so well." If there was any rancour in her voice over the fact that he'd talked about it with Mandy and not her, then she hid it well. 

"Mob hit, in the glass elevator, a 22 calibre bullet. Untraceable." 

Sara's face screwed up in sympathy. "Tough gig," she commiserated. She reached up and took down two coffee mugs, setting them down just so beside the coffee maker, aligning them in exactly the same position, concentrating hard on the patterned china. "Where were you until now?"

He heard the unspoken question, hoped that she'd hear his unspoken answer. "Casinos. Telling managers that Green wouldn't be coming in any more. Thought I might pick up a lead that way."

She turned slowly, eyebrow lifted. "Did you?"

He sighed. "Not on that," he said slowly. "Not on that."

She took a step closer to him, then another. "What do you mean?" she asked tentatively, but he could see something suspiciously like hope in her eyes. 

He drew in a deep breath, counted to ten before he let it out, using the time to choose his words carefully. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired, more tired than he could ever remember being. 

"I think I have a problem."

He didn't know what to expect to see in her face when he said those six little words, had never even thought about saying them before tonight. Would there be disappointment there, the kind of disappointment that had often been in his grandmother's face when he'd got himself into trouble as a headstrong teenager? Anger maybe, at how low he'd let himself fall? Perhaps an "I told you so," because she had, many and oft. Would she be happy that she was proven right, satisfied?

There was a long pause before she did anything. She just stood there, staring at him, eyes narrowing slightly, then blinking furiously. He thought he could make out the faintest shimmer of moisture there, but before he had a chance to ask her, she was closing the distance between them, shaking her head. He didn't talk, couldn't talk, and then she was in front of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching up to touch his cheek. The touch was a gentle as a whisper, and then her arms were around his neck, her face buried against his chest. 

It took only a second for his arms to respond, holding her tightly to him, her skin warming his palms even through the material of her pyjamas. One hand reached up to touch her hair, his fingers tangling in it, and he let out another long breath. When she pulled back, she gave him a shaky smile. "It's going to be ok," she told him, her voice choked, and he sighed, any reassurance from the hug fading with the space between them. 

"Is it?" She blinked once, and he dropped his hands from her waist, taking a step away from her, turning and leaning on the counter heavily. "You can't know that."

There was a second of silence, then he felt her hands slip around his waist, holding him from behind, felt her rest her cheek against his shoulder blade. "Yes I can." Her voice was firm, confident, the one that she used in the lab when she'd just come up with some incontrovertible piece of evidence that would nail shut a case once and for all. 

He wanted her to have done that now, but he doubted it somehow. A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. "How?"

She sighed, releasing her hold on his waist, coming around to his left. Her right arm stretched across his shoulders, while her left hand travelled down his arm to rest against his. She squeezed it gently, and he took the hint, looking across at her. "Did you place a bet at the casino?" she asked quietly. 

She already knew the answer, but he told her anyway, not breaking eye contact. "No."

"You came here instead?" Her gaze was just as steady. 

He turned over his left hand, twining his fingers with hers. "Yeah."

"That's how I know." She glanced down briefly at their joined hands, and in that moment, he wanted to ask her if that was a scientific deduction, if she could back it up with facts, if she had some data to support the theory. But then she looked up at him again, one shoulder rising in a shrug, her cheeks a rosy shade of pink and she said, "I trust you."

He knew Sara. He knew that she didn't trust easily, that she didn't let people into her life often. So those three small words held one big meaning that banished all thoughts of teasing her from his mind. Instead, he turned to face her, pulling her into a hug once again, taking a deep breath before he said anything. 

"What did I ever do," he eventually murmured. "To end up with you?"

She chuckled into his shoulder, pulling back and grinning up at him. "Just lucky I guess," she told him, and he tilted his head to the side, pretending to consider it. 

"Must be."

She rose up on her toes, brushing her lips against his quickly, then stepped out of his arms, moving over to the other counter. "You want that coffee now?" she asked, and she squeaked with surprise when he grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back to him, turning her as he did so. The sound, a sound that he not so long ago would never in a million years have associated with Sara Sidle made him chuckle, and she rested willingly in his arms. 

"We get coffee, we'll be awake all night. I want to get some sleep."

She arched a brow, staring up at him. "Oh you do, do you?" There was more than a little air of challenge in her tone. 

"Yeah," he nodded, grinning down at her. "See, my girl's been working crazy hours, even on her day off. Poor thing can hardly keep her eyes open…"

She was laughing silently, eyes dancing with mirth, and something else, and her fingers traced patterns on his shoulders absently. "Oh, I think she can stay awake for some things…" she said, letting her voice trail off teasingly. 

"Oh, is that a fact?" he murmured, and she nodded, their faces moving closer and closer to one another, until their lips were meeting. They just about managed to remember to shut off the coffee machine before they stumbled, still kissing, to her bedroom, and once there, he didn't think about gambling, or Tyson Green, or anything else but her. 

Later, who knew how much later, she was finally asleep in his arms, her last words not being words of love, or trust, but instead a sleepy but firm order that if the phone rang a second before it was supposed to, to shoot it. He'd laughed at the vehemence in her voice, expecting some kind of reaction to that, but she'd been asleep before it had even registered with her. 

He didn't sleep though, not for a while. 

Instead, he listened to her breathing, concentrated on the rise and fall of each steady breath, letting it calm him, centre him, just like she did. He wasn't naïve enough to believe that things were going to be plain sailing for them from here on out, didn't think at all his problems were at an end just because he'd finally admitted to himself what she'd known for months. Things weren't going to get better, or easier because of six little words, he knew that. 

But for the first time in months, he didn't think they were going to get any worse either. 


End file.
